


uncharted

by alwayskeepwriting (Kandai)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s11e04 Baby, Experimental Style, F/M, Gen, POV Inanimate Object
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kandai/pseuds/alwayskeepwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the ten truths game but she has too many stories to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	uncharted

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer : Erik Kripke
> 
> Note: After last episode, my friend Androbeaurepaire (and all the fandom, I suppose) needed Baby’s POV fics so I’ve tried to make justice to the prompt. I cannot English to save my life, I’m deeply sorry about that. Format was very inspired by [this awesome fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3916054) and I wanted to try it myself in a language I don't speak on a daily basis. Enjoy reading :)

####  uncharted

 

**one:**

Sal used to read loudly at the end of long days, when the weight of loneliness became too much for him to bear. His voice was rough, mistreated by years of drinking alone and trying to mirror. He never pulled over to read the books he carried with him, oh no, he knew entire verses by heart, the words written on the yellow papers inked under his eyelids ; he took time to tell his tale, again and again. Hours. Minutes lost in the dusk. She learned to know the story before learning to know the road.

If she could talk now, she would say it was a good story to listen to but then, she can be quite biased: it’s the only one she knew when Sal was riding with her, after all, and she has learned through the years, what power can hold a simple feeling of nostalgia. She would insist that the story was good though – what wasn’t to love in those words, lost to the road and the solitary skies? It had Kings in it, lands she doesn’t know about and pursuit of the wind, _vanitas vanitatium_ (she liked to think they were alike, the King and her, both trying to see all that were made under the sun, both always chasing the wind). It didn’t quite make sense but at least, it made long times between her and Sal seem shorter, if only a bit. It made the bored tears that came with loneliness bearable.

She missed Sal’s voice, sometimes.

(Don’t tell Dean, though. He gets jealous too easily.)

* * *

**two:**

Mary was her first love.

It was all John’s fault to be fair. She was the one who had to listen to his ramblings for hours, the one who collected his sighs and the tiny pearls of sweat that dragged across his forehead to fall on the leather of her seats, she was the one who nursed his crush molded into devotion. He talked a lot more than Sal, her new owner, and she didn’t quite know what to think of that. For all she knew, he was a young man in love who tried to get the nerve to propose to his sweetheart.

It was kind of cute when she allows herself to think of it. A happy memory. She holds so many of those but they don’t feature John and Mary as they were, in the early years – for that, the sheer rarity of those moments, she clings on it with something akin to desperation.

Well, who was she to blame John ? She remembers her first time too: the first time she saw Mary coming to her, touching her nose with wonder, her blond hair fluttering around her face like a halo, she had thought with something akin to awe, to envy: « Damn, Johnny, you really snatched an angel, didn’t you? »

(Oh, the irony.)

She grew to love John, of course, but Mary was the first, will always be someone she holds very dear in her heart made of plastic and metal. She remembers how she always made sure to be extra tender when Mary took the wheel. She remembers how her motor used to purr every time Mary drove her.

She remembers seeing her burnt bones under a white sheet.

Mary was her first love. She was her first heartbreak.

* * *

**three:**

Humans don’t have wheels. Humans grows and she watched them grow, the two boys John took with him, she watched them holding themselves into the backseat, she watched their sandwiches crumble and disappear on her floor, into all the tiny unreachable places, she watched how they hit each other when they were angry and how they touched when they were sorry, with awkwardness and tenderness alike. She watched and she learned to grow herself, too.

They were Mary’s sons after all, bright and clear eyes like their mother, a fire in their voices, in the way they gripped the leather that seemed like a echo of their dead mother. They were Mary’s sons but not only and she already loved them for that, for tiny laughters hiding in her backseat and scrapped knuckles against the glass of her windows.

She told them the only story she knew, over and over, about the King of Israel who had seen all of the world, but they never seemed to be captivated by it. However, they told her their stories and she grew to love those as well, the ones about superheroes and heroic missions and « shh, don’t tell, Sammy, it’s supposed to be a secret, you remember ». They told her stories through songs, take a sad song and make it better, and she grew to learn them through the tapes, the voices, the sweet litany of melodies coming from her throat. She liked to sing, she discovered, more than she liked to tell stories.

If anything, it felt like a promise.

They grew up, Mary’s sons, and John grew angrier or sadder or both, she never quite knew. She stopped to recognize him after a while.

It still makes her sad today.

* * *

**four:**

Her memory wasn’t perfect. On the contrary.

A frustrating example. She didn’t quite remember when Dean stopped to call her « the car » and began to call her « Baby », for example. In comparison of everything they had been through, it seemsed an unimportant memory but it was one she was angry to have lost.

She had been given many names in the past, « the car », « the Impala », « this freaking piece of junk » (punched had flown on this particular night), sometimes « home » (oh, she had learned to cherish those moments) but « Baby » was a name she had taken for herself, the one she loved the most – maybe because it was Dean that gave it to her, maybe because of what was hidden under, the sheer longing, the love he wore so close to his heart, like a shameful secret.

Maybe because she loved him, quite simply.

But then, she didn’t need to remember how it began to remember the hard texture of Dean’s hand under her hood, his wrists bent under her as he worked hard to make her free again, to remember what is it to be something – someone – Dean Winchester loved (I don’t need a symbol to be reminded of I feel about –)

Being angry at herself would have brought nothing good so she let herself go with a strange difficulty, stopped resenting her memory loss to appreciate the present a bit more. It wasn’t perfection, what they had, and she grew to learn it.

It was better, really.

(« Maybe you do need a symbol, Dean. »)

(Oh, she would give him if she had a voice. All the symbols, all the reminders, all the stories she could tell, « you are loved, my brave heart, don’t you forget about that… »)

* * *

**five:**

She liked the Ipod.

* * *

**six:**

One day, the boys left and didn’t come back from her. She waited and waited and counted the days, hoping in the everlasting silence that they hadn’t forget her. She played Sal’s history until she was sick of hearing it, of thinking about Kings and pursuit of the wind – and then, the questions came. Were they chasing the wind, her boys? Were they happy, happier than they had been or maybe dead – it would make no difference in the grand scheme of things but she preferred thinking they were still alive and working to make sadness disappear from their eyes.

It was unlikely, of course but Baby hoped, still.

She mourned them too, like she had mourned their mother, sweet Mary burnt to cinders, sweet Mary that had never left her memory (how could have she, when her boys looked so much like her, same bright eyes, same fire, the same that had consumed her too fast?)

And then, they came back with empty hands and emptier smiles. Dean pressed apologies against her wheel and Sam leaned a bit more than he should have against the seat. They were sorry. They were sadder. She didn’t know if she had to be relieved or angry.

(She loved them, oh she would have bled plastic and leather and broken shard of glass, but she would never, never forgive this betrayal.)

* * *

**seven:**

She forgave them, when Sam came back alone and cried until he stopped seeing the road.

(Dean wasn’t there. It wasn’t really a surprise anymore but it still cut in deeply, even after all those times.)

* * *

**eight:**

_home, noun_ :

\- born in 67,

\- most important object in the world (not her words),

\- a toy soldier stuck in a ashtray,  

\- leather jacket sprayled on the backseat. a secret stash of audio books in her drawers (Dean, you don’t fool anybody), a shoe lost somewhere under the seats,

\- a pair of initial carved in her own flesh – she still hurts thinking about that day but it’s a good kind of ache, similar to the hurt that stay with you when you let needles pierce your skin. she wears their mark like a tattoo, like a brand. like a bloody family picture,

\- the one we lost, they will say. the one we regained,

\- the one that remained.

* * *

**nine:**

She holds them close now. She watches them sleep, watches her sweet Sam trying to fit his awkward limbs into the backseat, watches her darling Dean fold over the wheel and weep before her state. She wants to laugh with them. She wants to cry as well. « Don’t cry, child » she wants to tell, wrap him tigther into her space. « You know me. I’m stronger than this. »

She is. She has survived countless ends of the world. She has survived carrying the corpses of the people she loved. She has survived steel and the horror of silence, the promise that came with the pursuit of the wind. _Vanitas_ , oh, she can survive bruises and broken glass.

(She is afraid he won’t. She is afraid he will break. She is afraid she won't be here to hold the pieces.)

* * *

**ten:**

When they come back to her, she will hold them again. She will tell them everything.


End file.
